The scent of drying desert herbs, a faint undercurrent of surgical spirits, and the earthy tang of Gorean clay permeated my healing chambers. It was a familiar symphony, the backdrop to a life I had chosen, a life I loved. Yet, even amidst the comfort of my work, a hollow echo persisted, a silent testament to the absence of one man. Alexander. My Alexander. The Builder. The midday sun, cast long shadows through the high, arched windows of my medical suite in Ar. Dust motes danced in the golden shafts of light, illuminating the meticulous order of my apothecaries’ shelves – row upon row of labeled vials, dried roots, and glistening salves. I had just finished stitching a deep gash on a herder’s arm, his coarse thanks still a low rumble in the air as he departed. My hands, usually steady and precise, trembled ever so slightly as I cleaned my instruments, not from fatigue, but from a lingering sense of disquiet that had been my constant companion for these past three months.
He had left with the promise of return, a vision of renewed strength for Gor in his eyes. The outposts along the Vosk River, vital arteries of trade and defense, had fallen into disrepair, battered by gusty winds and over flowing banks, neglected by petty councils , and occasionally harassed by opportunistic raiders. Alexander, with his unparalleled vision for construction, his command of stone and timber, and his indomitable will, was the only man capable of restoring them. I remembered the last night, his strong arms around me, the scent of desert dust and his own unique masculine musk clinging to him. He had whispered assurances against my hair, "I will return, Elizabeth. Always to you." But the Vosk was a long, treacherous path, and Gor was a world where promises could be swallowed by the sand.
A soft knock at the door startled me. “Enter,” I called, my voice betraying none of the turmoil within. A young runner, a boy I recognized from the city’s messenger guild, entered. He was breathless, his face streaked with sweat and dust, clutching a small, leather-bound cylinder. "Physician Elizabeth," he panted, bowing respectfully, "a dispatch. From the Vosk. From Master Alexander."
My heart, which had been a quiet murmur, suddenly hammered against my ribs. “If you will please” coming from my suddenly parched lips. My fingers, usually so adept at diagnosing a fever or setting a bone, fumbled slightly as I took the cylinder. It was sealed with Alexander’s personal crest – a stylized hammer and chisel entwined with a soaring tarn. Unmistakable. The runner, sensing the gravity of the moment, bowed again and quietly withdrew. I was alone, the cylinder cool and smooth in my trembling hand. I walked to my heavy wooden desk, placing the cylinder reverently upon it. My eyes traced the familiar symbol, a symbol of strength and creation, but also of absence.
I broke the seal, slipping a small, obsidian scalpel beneath the wax. Inside, rolled tightly, was a single sheet of cured parchment. The script was a bold, decisive, architects script, undeniably Alexander’s. My gaze fell upon the opening words, and a tide of emotion washed over me, hot and stinging behind my eyes.
It has been too long. Each passing day, each sunrise over the long vastness of the Vosk, finds me thinking of you, wishing for the sight of your face, the sound of your voice.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, picturing him, perhaps seated by a crackling fire, the night cold and vast around him, his brow furrowed in concentration as he wrote these very words. A small, involuntary smile touched my lips, quickly followed by the familiar ache of longing. I opened my eyes and continued to read, my thumb tracing the words on the parchment.
“The work here is arduous, as expected. The outpost at Sais, little more than a rubble heap when we arrived, is slowly taking form. My men, though weary, are stout of heart. We uncovered an ancient cistern, Elizabeth, buried beneath centuries of sand – a marvel of old Gorean engineering. It will bring fresh water to the outpost, a true blessing."
I could almost hear his enthusiasm, that particular tone he adopted when speaking of his architectural triumphs. He saw beauty in structure, nobility in function. I remembered once, early in our courtship, how he’d spent hours explaining the stress points of a new archway, his eyes alight with passion. I, who understood the intricate architecture of the human body, found a profound kinship in his understanding of stone and mortar.
"We faced a skirmish with some renegade bands near Tafa - nothing serious, I assure you, but a reminder of the ever-present dangers beyond the cities. A few cuts and bruises, swiftly mended by my field healer, though I confess I longed for your touch, your sure hand ."
My heart gave a lurch. “Nothing serious,” he wrote, but I knew Alexander. He would downplay any risk, any injury, to spare me worry. I remembered the time he’d returned from a survey mission with a poisoned arrow wound, refusing to let his men send word until he was practically at my door. I had worked through the night, drawing the venom, binding his fevered brow. He had endured it all with the stoic courage of a warrior, but his vulnerability, those brief moments of dependence on me, had only deepened my love. The thought of him in any danger, without me there to tend to him, was a constant, gnawing fear.
“The nights are cold, the stars brilliant beyond measure. I often find myself looking up, trying to pinpoint the same constellations you might be watching from Ar, imagining you beneath them, perhaps reading by lamplight in your chambers, or tending to a patient.”
A warmth spread through me, chasing away the chill of anxiety. He truly did think of me. Not just my presence, but my life, my work. He understood that my calling was as vital to me as his was to him. We were two strong, independent currents, destined to flow together.
“I miss the small things, Elizabeth. The way your hair catches the morning light, the scent of your skin, the quiet companionship of our evenings. I miss the discussions we would have over dinner, your logical mind challenging my sometimes-impetuous spirit. I miss your laugh, a sound that can make even the harshest day bearable.”
A tear, unbidden, escaped and traced a path down my cheek. He spoke of the mundane, the everyday, which were now the most precious memories. I remembered one particular evening, long ago, after a difficult surgical procedure for me, and a frustrating day on a construction site for him. We had sat in comfortable silence, sharing a simple meal of roasted tarsk and suls, the only sound the crackle of the hearth. Then, he had reached across the table, taken my hand, and simply held it, his thumb stroking my knuckles. No words were needed then, just that profound connection. It was in those moments, more than in grand declarations, that our love truly took root.
“The rebuilding of the outpost at Turmus is next on our agenda, a formidable task, but I believe we are up to it. We hope to complete this leg of the journey and be on our way back to Ar within two cycles of the moons, perhaps three if the changes in weather become particularly fierce.” Two cycles… or three. Six to nine weeks. It felt like an eternity, yet it was a finite period. A horizon I could see, even if faintly. My heart lifted a little. There was an end in sight, a return to anticipate.
“I long for the day I can return to you, Elizabeth, to your embrace, to the quiet comfort of our home. My thoughts are never far from you, my physician, my beloved.”
“Yours, always, Alexander”
The letter ended there. My eyes lingered on his name, scrawled with such certainty, such enduring affection. The parchment felt warm now, imbued with his presence. I held it to my chest, closing my eyes again, letting the words wash over me, a balm to my weary soul.His words were a testament to his strength, his dedication, and his unwavering love. He was far away, in a world of dust and danger, but his heart, like mine, remained anchored. He was building, not just outposts of stone, but bridges of communication, strengthening the very fabric of Gor. And he was building, in his absence, a deeper foundation for our own future, for our own reunion. I walked to the window, the letter still clutched in my hand, and gazed out at the bustling city. The distant cries of vendors, the clang of metal from the smithy, the low hum of daily life – it all seemed sharper, more vibrant. His letter had not erased my longing, but it had infused it with hope, with a renewed sense of purpose.
My patients needed me. My community needed me. And Alexander, though far away, depended on my unwavering spirit, just as I depended on his. I would write back, of course, pouring my own heart onto parchment, filling him with news of Ar, of my work, and of my enduring love. Until then, I would find strength in his words, in the promise of his return. The wait would be long, but the builder’s promise was a foundation stronger than any stone. And on Gor, a promise was everything.
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